‘I’m a failure. I can’t protect any of you.’
His father coughed – a deep, rasping rattle. Spat some phlegm into a snow-white handkerchief. ‘You know the answer to that, son.’
‘Look, when I drop you at the day centre, do me a favour. Don’t go walkabout.’
He shot a sideways glance at the old man, noticing to his chagrin that he had trimmed one side of his white beard for him higher than the other. He was losing his touch.
‘Red light!’ Youssuf shouted.
Tariq faced forward abruptly, slamming on his brake. He yelped as somebody ploughed into the back of the Mercedes, sending him lurching over the stop line into the path of a heavy goods vehicle.
Chapter 9
Sheila
‘We’ve got a grass,’ Sheila said, pounding away at the Stairmaster as though she was wreaking vengeance on the little shit that had been leaking her business to Nigel Bancroft. She pumped the handles up and down, raining imaginary blows on his or her head. ‘And now you’re telling me that M1 House is overrun with Brummies? You idiot!’
In her brightly lit home-gym in the subterranean spa of the Bramshott mansion, she stared past Frank, fixated by their reflection in the ceiling-to-floor mirrors, repeated in infinite regress: an athletic, middle-aged woman in her prime, clad in pink Lycra, powered by long-suppressed ambition, bawling out a stooped, grey-faced middle-aged man, dressed like a youth, who looked as though the gravity of this harsh world had finally all but flattened him. It was a scene of the strong bullying the weak. And she didn’t like it one bit.
‘Sorry,’ she said, stepping off the Stairmaster. ‘I should be asking you how you are, not having a pop at you.’
The dimpling in Frank’s chin abated. He offered her a weak smile by way of a truce and sat down onto the seat pad of her lateral pull-down machine. He waggled his head from side to side uncertainly. ‘I’m all right, me. Ta for asking. I ended up in A&E thinking I was having a heart attack like our Pad. Turns out it was only bloody indigestion! I’d taken too much gear on an empty stomach and a load of painkillers a few hours earlier. Buggered me guts up, didn’t it?’
Sheila dried her sweaty hands on a towel and squeezed Frank’s shoulder in sympathy. ‘That’s lucky.’
‘The doc kicked us out with a warning about watching what I eat and stress and that. But is it any wonder I’m strung out? Them Brummies are taking the piss. The last thing I need is another shooting in the club. It was close, She. Bloody close.’
Sheila shook her head. Inhaled deeply, conjuring the memory of Nigel Bancroft’s easy, cheesy smile. It was like Paddy all over again. A man, trying to bully her when she didn’t do as she was told, like a good little girl. She ground her molars together until they squeaked. ‘I’m gonna sort this,’ she said. ‘Bancroft seemed to know I was mulling over selling the drugs and protection or farming it out as a franchise. The only time I’ve ever discussed that outside of my house has been at the weed farm. We’ve got a leak. I’m gonna find it. And we need more O’Brien men at the club.’ She pointed at her brother-in-law like an accusing schoolmarm. ‘You need to sort out your bouncers. They’re the gatekeepers and they’re not doing their jobs.’
‘Sorry, She.’
Taking a hearty swig from her water bottle, Sheila said, ‘Bancroft’s muscle nearly blew holes in some woman with a kid in a trolley outside the Lowry. Only reason they stood down was coppers showed up. If they hadn’t been doing a routine patrol, we all could have ended up in the cells or body bags. And Paddy surrounded himself with incompetents, apart from Conky.’ Glancing down, she noted the hurt in Frank’s haunted, bloodshot eyes. ‘And you, obviously.’ No. The hurt was still there. Frank wasn’t that easily fooled or flattered. Much of his child-like lack of cynicism had been buried along with his son. ‘Leave it with me, chuck.’
‘Chuck’, at least, put a half-hearted smile back on her brother-in-law’s woebegone face.
With Frank gone, Sheila pushed herself to put in twenty lengths in the glittering turquoise pool. Swimming on her back, she followed the line of the bricks in the spotlit, vaulted ceiling, savouring the notion that all this contemporary opulence was hers and hers alone, now. She was a woman of independent means with hundreds of staff on the payroll, no longer Paddy’s pushover trophy-wife and punchbag. She realised that it was time to step into the big boss’ shoes in earnest.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ she told the lapping water, clinging to the side and wiping her face. ‘It’s time to get tough.’
Dressing for success in skin-tight leather trousers and her favourite Burberry leather biker jacket, she threw her highest-heeled boots into her Chanel tote and drove the Rolls Royce to Gloria’s house. Knocked smartly on the door to the rented semi, clutching the hard case in her right hand. Her freshly worked-out biceps protested at the weight.
When she answered, Gloria was already wearing her coat and shoes. Her best dress that she wore to most meetings was visible beneath the three-quarter-length coat. She looked like a formidable Latin mistress on a weekend off. ‘About time.’ Gloria thrust her watch-clad wrist towards Sheila, raising an eyebrow in the sort of disapproval that only the overtly religious mastered. ‘You’re late!’
Sheila thrust the case into Gloria’s hands. ‘I want a quick word,’ she said, waving her business partner back into the house.
‘What’s with the leather and the Roller? Who you trying to impress?’ Gloria asked, kicking off her chunky-heeled shoes and padding in her stockinged feet towards the kitchen. The straps had left an indent in her swollen ankles. ‘Take your trainers off, She! If the no-shoes rule’s good enough for you, it’s darn well good enough for me.’ She peered up the stairs towards the landing. ‘Leviticus! Shake a leg! You’d better be dressed and baby Jay better be ready to roll. Whoever is slack in his work is a brother to him who destroys – Proverbs 18:9!’
Her words were met with a groan and something muffled in the long-suffering tone normally used by teenagers. Sheila stifled a smile. Remembered that she was here on business.
‘What’s in this case?’ Gloria asked, grunting as she heaved it onto the laminated surface of the kitchen worktop. ‘Your make-up?’
Ignoring the comment, Sheila strode over and clicked the locks open, revealing the contents of the red velvet interior.
‘A shotgun?’ Gloria took a step back, clasping her work-worn hand to her chest.
As Sheila waited for the surprise to sink in, Gloria approached the case again, gingerly lifting the box of cartridges from its recess. Frowning, holding the box at a distance, as though it might explode in her face.
‘It’s for you,’ Sheila said. ‘A gift.’
Her business partner turned to her, shaking her head in protest but surreptitiously stretching an arm back to run her fingers over the beautiful polished wood of the stock. ‘I’m a practising Christian, Sheila O’Brien. Why on earth would you give me an implement of violence?’
‘What do you think they fought the Crusades with?’ Sheila asked. ‘Charm? B.O.?’
‘The power of the Lord!’ Gloria said.
‘And weapons.’ Sheila marched up to the case, pushing Gloria aside. She lifted the shotgun out. Presented it to Jesus’ favourite sunbeam. ‘Hold it. See how it feels.’
Shaking her head yet again, Gloria took her gift. A glimmer of a smile and a hint of mischief in her eyes. ‘It’s very heavy.’ She dropped and raised the gun like barbells, hoisted it to her shoulder and peered down the barrel at Sheila. ‘Ka-pow!’
Steeling herself not to flinch, Sheila prayed that Gloria would play ball. ‘I need you, Glo. Paddy sent a load of boys in to do a woman’s job. I’ve got junkies pretending to run a drugs enterprise that’s worth millions a year. They’re hopeless and smoke most of the product. They wouldn’t know discipline or staffing structures if they came along and shagged them up the arse with a flip chart.’
‘Oh, Sheila! Language! If you please!’ Gloria winced.
Keep going, She. S
he’s buckling. ‘Your Lev is the most intelligent out of all of them put together. They’re not trustworthy. Someone’s shooting their mouth off to a rival gang in Birmingham. Frank’s overrun with them in the club. And now I think about it, I’m not queuing up to give eighty per cent of my hard-earned cash to some out-of-towner who thinks I should step aside, just because I’ve got a vagina instead of a shrivelled little cock.’ She wiggled her little finger for emphasis.
‘Sheila O’Brien! You’re terrible!’ Gloria snorted. ‘Why should I get involved with that side, though? We don’t have any agreement about Paddy’s old affairs. That’s sinners’ business.’
‘Ten percent if you take the job as my manager. If Christians weren’t supposed to earn money, Jesus wouldn’t have put zeros in “holy” and “godly”.’
‘That makes no sense. Fifteen.’
‘Done.’ Sheila grinned broadly. Knew she would get reliable old Gloria onside in the end. Even a Bible-basher like her had a price. Everyone had a price and Gloria’s was significantly cheaper than Bancroft’s.
‘What did you say about rivals in Birmingham?’ A man’s voice.
Sheila looked over to the threshold of the kitchen and saw Lev leaning against the door frame with Jay on his hip. The child still had a bandaged head after the brain surgeon in Baltimore had removed his tumour. Size of an orange, Gloria had said. But now he was smiling and poking at the lightning bolt shaved into Lev’s stubbled scalp. His honey-coloured skin was lighter than Lev’s mixed-race-mocha, thanks to his white mother, Tiffany. But the little boy’s beautiful, symmetrical features and the promise of high cheekbones once the baby-chub had gone were surely down to his father. Small wonder that Mia Margulies had had the hots for Leviticus Bell, Sheila mused. ‘I’ve got trouble with Brummies and there’s an internal leak. You seen anything out of place at the cannabis farm?’
Lev nodded, advancing into the kitchen. Ignoring his mother, who was rummaging in a broom cupboard for something or other. Gazing suspiciously at the shotgun on the worktop. ‘That’s not loaded, is it? I can’t be having no guns in the house with my boy.’ Little Jay stretched out towards the weapon but Lev pulled him gently back to hold him close against his body. ‘Not for Jay-Jay,’ he told the child. ‘Dangerous.’
Sheila was touched by the fatherly love she could see in his concerned frown and ensuing smile. She wondered if Gloria had ever shown Lev that much affection. Couldn’t remember her having done so when she had brought him to her house as a boy during the school holidays. ‘It’s your mam’s. She’s your new boss.’ The smile slid from Lev’s face. ‘My manager. She’s going to whip those little pillocks into shape. And I’m expecting you to be behind her every step of the way. None of that Boddlington crap. Your loyalty now is to the O’Briens. And I’m watching you, Leviticus Bell.’
Scowling now, Lev yanked open a cupboard and took out some biscuits. Bit on one angrily and gave one to Jay to chew on. Slammed the cupboard door shut with some force. ‘I couldn’t work for Tariq and Jonny if I wanted, thanks to you and all the bullshit you stoked up.’
‘Need I remind you why your son’s on the mend?’ She knew it was a low comment but Sheila realised she was done for, the moment she allowed insubordination to creep in.
Lev blinked hard, a mouth full of biscuit. He chewed noisily, as if contemplating her sucker punch. Mouth open. Not so hot.
‘Degsy’s got a lad from Birmingham working in the weed farm,’ he said, shoving his tongue beneath his top lip.
‘You what?’
‘Yeah. Kevin. Brummie Kev. We both used to work for Scots Mavis, twocking cars for her cut-and-shut business. He’s been knocking around Manchester for years, has Kev. On and off, like.’
‘What’s he doing, working for me?’
Lev shrugged. ‘Ask Degsy. He’s the one give him a job. Said he was short-staffed after all what went on in the spring.’
Sheila narrowed her eyes. Took a step towards Lev and scrutinised his blemish-free face. ‘What’s he like, this Kevin? Do you trust him?’
Laughing, Lev threw his head back and closed his eyes. The thick cords of muscle in his neck bulged. ‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? He’s a fucking criminal. He’d steal the pennies off a dead man’s eyes! And he’s got no loyalty to you.’
‘You think he’s the grass?’
‘What do you think? You’re getting grief off some arsehole in Birmingham. Kev’s not called Brummie Kev for nowt and he’s a shifty little prick. Always was. He still owes us a tenner from 2007.’
‘How can I trust a word that comes out of your mouth?’ she asked.
‘I give up everything for you, didn’t I?’
‘Don’t come that shit. You gave up everything for money.’
Locking eyes, the two were caught in a silent battle of wills. Sheila could see that Lev had the same strength of character as his mother. But more than that … He had integrity.
There was a clatter from the broom cupboard, accompanied by a celebratory, ‘Da-daaaa!’ Gloria emerged, wheeling a tartan shopping wagon across the kitchen.
‘What the hell is that?’ Sheila asked, smiling with bemusement. ‘You going to Alty market for spuds? Or are you moving into Sunrise Rest Home?’
‘Don’t be so quick to mock, Sheila,’ Gloria said. ‘This is the sheath for my righteous sword.’ She started to sing lines from some hymn or other that Sheila vaguely remembered from Paddy’s funeral. ‘Jerusalem’, maybe. ‘Bring me my bow of burning gold. Bring me my arrows of desire!’ Then, the words seemed to evade her. ‘La di di deee, da-dum-de-dum. Bring me my chariot of fire.’ She wheeled the shopping wagon round at speed and holstered the shotgun inside it with a flourish. ‘This is my chariot of fire, She.’ Rolling it back and forth, back and forth. Withdrawing the shotgun at speed and pointing it at the cooker.
‘Jesus, Mam,’ Lev cried. ‘Put it away! Not in front of Jay.’
Ignoring his protest, Gloria swung the shotgun over her shoulder, as though its mere presence had transformed her into Jules from Pulp Fiction. ‘Don’t be embarrassed by it on my behalf, young man.’ Clearly misunderstanding Lev’s complaint as a slur against the tartan atrocity. ‘This fine shopping wagon will save the rheumatism in your mother’s poor hands. Years of having my hands in water, that is! I’m crippled when it’s damp. And my back’s not up to much either.’
‘Pulp Friction,’ Lev muttered under his breath, as though he had read Sheila’s thoughts.
Chapter 10
Paddy
Staring at the flickering computer screen, Paddy considered what he might write next to Ellis James. He took a swig from his can of extra-strength lager, glad that he had managed to stave off another lunchtime hangover by continuing to drink steadily throughout the afternoon. Relieved that Brenda had taken pity on him and let him hang around at hers, where he could crank the heating up at her expense and raid her fridge. Kyle’s laptop was infinitely superior to the piece of shit he had at his place. Kyle’s bedroom was the only decent room in the dump, though the thirteen-year-old was way too old for the brightly coloured kiddy cars and trains that covered the wall, now partly concealed beneath posters of some dickhead band called Twenty-One Pilots.
Back to the screen. What to say today?
‘If you want to know where Maureen Kaplan keeps bent accounting records,’ he said out loud as he typed slowly with two fingers, ‘check out Bella’s Afro Hair Supplies in Crumpsall before end of month.’ He signed the email off as ‘Shadow Hunter’, using the moniker of one of those YouTubing twats that Kyle followed. Pressed send and slurped at the beer. Waited for the response. And waited.
Paddy pressed F5 repeatedly, wondering when the hell the berk of a detective would get back to him. He scratched at his groin. Maybe he ought to shower more regularly. Kenneth Wainwright’s shower in that tired two-up, two-down rental was shite. The water either came through scalding hot or freezing cold. The pressure was almost non-existent from the cheap electric shower rig-up that had been po
orly screwed onto the tiled wall by the private landlord. Brenda’s was no better.
Showering. Who would have thought that one of the things he missed most about being a wealthy man was daily access to a good power shower in a clean bathroom?
But Paddy was jolted out of his musings on personal hygiene and poor man’s water pressure by the arrival of a response from his least favourite dogged detective.
Re: Maureen Kaplan tip-off
James, Ellis
To: Shadow Hunter ([email protected])
Hi SH,
How do you know about Maureen Kaplan? Where are you getting your intel from? Can we meet? What can you tell me about Jonny Margulies and Tariq Khan?
Regards
E.J.
Paddy smiled at the screen. Ellis James was more than intrigued. He was well and truly on the hook, and Paddy would enjoy reeling him in slowly. All those years he’d spent trying to pull the thorn from his side that was the detective and his Rottweiler of a tax-inspecting sidekick, Ruth Darley, and now, here James was: the instrument of Paddy’s revenge.
‘Don’t worry where I got info from,’ he wrote. ‘It’s good.’
He contemplated his link to the outside world – Hank the Wank had had a busy week of it, installing hi-tech sound-recording equipment in the offices of Maureen Kaplan when she was out at meetings. His oldest school friend was proving to be the perfect choice for a spy. Loyal as they came. No criminal record. Blended in everywhere, because who gave a workman in overalls a second thought if he went about his business with a merry whistle and an air of confidence? Endlessly excited by the novelty of subterfuge, and inexperienced enough not to have a clue what his skills were really worth on the black market. So far, Hank was working for peanuts and considered it a small fortune. So far, Katrina was indulging Paddy in sticking him an extra few hundred here and there to assist his transition back to normal life.
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